Chapter 2 - The Anatomy of a Staged Crash
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The silence inside the bathroom was deafening.
I looked at the fifty-year-old billionaire sitting in front of me. For three years, I had cared for my dying father in San Diego, learning how to recognize the subtle difference between biological deterioration and emotional exhaustion. In Garrett Corbin, I saw neither. I saw a caged wolf waiting for the right second to strike.
“Why tell me?” I asked, keeping my hand firm on my phone. “I arrived this morning. You don't know me. I could walk out that door right now and tell Douglas.”
Garrett offered a faint, melancholy smile—a look that reminded me of my own reflection in the mirror after signing my divorce papers.
“I had my private security auditors review thirty-four applicants before I approved your placement, Rebecca,” Garrett said softly. “I know you spent four years nursing your father through a debilitating stroke with flawless devotion. I know you sacrificed your administrative career for a marriage that ended three weeks ago when your husband took a coworker to hotel rooms in La Jolla.”
A sharp pang struck my chest, but I didn't look away.
“I know your mother-in-law told you that you were worthless because you couldn't bear children,” Garrett continued, his voice softening with profound, genuine empathy. “And I know that when you walked out of that house, you took only what you legally earned and refused to take a single dime of dirty alimony.”
He looked down at his functional legs, then back at my face.
“You know what it feels like to be betrayed by the people who eat at your table, Rebecca. You know what it feels like to watch parasites celebrate your suffering. You are the only person in this house with clean hands.”
I took a slow breath, releasing my grip on the phone in my pocket.
“What happened eight months ago, Mr. Corbin?”
Garrett reached into the side pocket of his wheelchair, beneath the foam cushion, and pulled out a slim, encrypted titanium thumb drive.
“On the evening of November 14th, I had scheduled an emergency executive audit of Corbin BioTech,” Garrett explained, his amber eyes burning with cold fire. “We had just received FDA Stage-III fast-track approval for NeuroCure—a breakthrough synthetic peptide capable of repairing myelin sheath damage in multiple sclerosis and spinal trauma patients. The intellectual property alone is valued at six hundred million dollars.”
“And Douglas?”
“Douglas had accumulated nine million dollars in offshore gambling debts in Macau and the Bahamas,” Garrett said. “He had promised our proprietary formulas to a secondary bio-consortium in exchange for an eighty-million-dollar buyout and a twenty-percent equity kickback. My crash happened three hours before I could present the audit findings to the board.”
“And since the crash?”
“Douglas assumed executive proxy voting rights under my mother’s power-of-attorney filing,” Garrett replied. “They hired Dr. Vance to administer my post-operative medication. But five weeks ago, I noticed my evening tea tasted slightly metallic. I stopped drinking it. Within ten days, the numbness in my thighs began to recede.”
My nurse’s training kicked in instantly. “What was in the tea?”
Garrett reached for the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a small glass vial containing dried chamomile leaves.
May you like
“You have clinical laboratory training, Rebecca,” Garrett said, placing the vial into my palm. “Find out what they are feeding me. And if you help me take my company back, I will make sure you never have to worry about your future for the rest of your life.”
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